Do Right By Him
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: The world turns, the baby squalls, and, just before the morphine drags Sylvia Kovacs down into a blissful oblivion free of aches and pains and a life that has never failed to disappoint, she thinks, I can do right by him.


**Title**: Do Right By Him  
**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No infringement is intended.  
_**Fandom**: Watchmen (comic)  
**Characters**: Sylvia Kovacs, Walter Kovacs  
**Continuity**: Set during Rorschach's childhood  
**Warnings**: Possible squick for child-abuse. Language. Implied prostitution.  
**Summary**: The world turns, the baby squalls, and, just before the morphine drags Sylvia Kovacs down into a blissful oblivion free of aches and pains and a life that has never failed to disappoint, she thinks, I can do right by him.  
**Author's** **Note**: Criticism, as always, welcomed, approved, adored and encouraged.

--

A woman is giving birth.

This, by itself, is not an uncommon or particularly remarkable event; indeed, it is the very height of normalcy in the eyes of the world, despite whatever personal importance placed upon it by the individuals involved. She has conceived, carried, and delivered – it is cycle, old and familiar in its way. No, there is nothing remarkable in this.

Sylvia Kovacs has given birth, and this implication, this setting of events into motion, is not an important act in the eyes of the _universe_ – but enough to warrant mention. The world turns, the baby squalls, and, just before the morphine drags her down into a blissful oblivion free of aches and pains and a life that has never failed to disappoint, she thinks, _I can do right by him._

I can do right by him.

--

She tries, by God. She tries for the first week. But he just keeps _crying_, no matter what she does, and no quantity of government checks and pitying strangers with loose change will make her want to pick him up anymore. Nothing can make this worth it. Fuck, all those pictures of those happy mothers and their smiling brats – no one said it would be this hard! They said it would come natural to her, at the clinic, as the doctor chidingly convinced her to keep it, because, because—goddamn, she couldn't even remember the stupid goddamn reason and _if he would just stop screaming for one_—

"Shut up, shut up_, shut up_," she howls right alongside him, banging her fists against the sputtering stovetop. She's on the edge of hysterics, she knows she is, she just can't deal with this, "I'm _trying_ you little fuck!" but instead of stopping that horrible noise it only seems to encourage it and the shrieks double in volume. He reaches his grubby, tiny little hands up and bawls, face screwed up tight and freckles lost in the red flush of effort. "J-Jesus, just leave me alone! You just, you leave me alone!" She knocks the bottle from the counter and storms from the room, desperately rooting for her cigarettes.

She puffs them hard and fast, almost gagging, burning through without tasting them and by the fourth the screams have trailed off to sobs and soft, cooing hiccoughs. She closes her eyes, relieved beyond measure, and rubs her forehead.

Fucking fuck. She didn't know what she had been getting into.

"Too fucking late now," she hisses into the filter, and crosses her legs. Just a couple more drags and she'll run in to finish off the bottle. Fucking formula. Not even worth it, not that she'd ever let that _thing_ suckle. She'd seen tits, all chewed up by brats. Not her. Never her.

Reaching the end of the pack, she rolls the last cigarette between her lips and at last trudges back to the kitchen. The burner is a bright orange in the darkness, and the baby is quiet, for once, incredibly quiet.

She hefts him up and deposits him in the secondhand crib she managed to scrounge up. He whimpers and turns his head toward her hand, fingers clenching at nothing. Sylvia rolls her eyes, and tugs the blanket up, grateful beyond measure for the reprieve.

Back in the kitchen she sits at the table, running her fingers over her lighter. He cries, briefly, some time later, yowling out into the empty bedroom. Again, much sooner this time, the sound winds down, echoes pathetically against the thin walls. Eventually the screaming ceases entirely.

And, as she lays down on the ratty couch, she can't help but think it's the best night's sleep she's had in a long time.

--

"You haven't tried to find reasonable work. Don't you have some applications, something to show me?"

Sylvia dandles the baby on her knee, bouncing a little harder than strictly necessary, trying to draw the social worker's eyes to the infant. "I need the money. Please. I'll turn in some applications, but right now, I just can't, I just need some money…"

"No, I'm sorry. Bring me some proof of applications, something to go on."

"Can't you give me anything?"

"Nothing more than what you're already getting. Listen, honey, I know it's gotta be tough for a woman in your… situation. But get a job. A _real_ job." The social worker reaches across the table, as if she would take Sylvia's hand, a sympathetic half-smile on her lips. "For your baby."

"Sure," She says, and squeezes his little shoulders maybe just a little too hard.

--

"You fucking _bitch_," He is bellowing, hand already raised. She draws her arms back to shove him again, and his palm descends, striking openly across her face, sending her tumbling to the floor. His other hand is struggling with his pants, trying to get the button through the hole with one hand and swearing angrily when he fumbles.

Sylvia cradles her burning cheek, rolling onto her elbows to scream, "Get out! Get the fuck out or I'll call the cops! You can't treat me like this, you motherfucker!" and kicking at his knees.

"Can treat you any damn way I want," the john hollers back, wiping his mouth on his arm and only managing to spread the lipstick more thoroughly about his lips. "Goddamn whore."

"Get out!"

He staggers out the door, tossing a couple bills over his shoulder, still fiddling with his belt. She screams again, throws whatever's near at hand – a shoe, an empty vase, an ashtray – before pounding on the ground with her fists. Damn him — _damn it_! She sobs out a trembling litany of insults and gibberish at the half-open door, pretending not to notice the neighbor's heads poking out to stare at her disapprovingly. "Motherfucker, I'll kill him, goddamn it I'm gonna kill him, fuck, _fuck_, I don't fucking… fucking shit-head."

From down the hall, a door creaks slowly open. She sees a shock of red hair – just like the bastard that landed her there in the first place – and a pair of muddy brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles. "Mom…?" he asks, knuckles white as he clutches the frame. He studies the red mark on her cheek from half behind the door, scrutinizing her, _judging her_, "Are you okay?"

"Come here," She demands, sitting up against the wall. "Come here, Walt, honey."

Cautiously, he edges out into the hall, comes to stand beside her in a threadbare t-shirt that passes as pajamas. He opens and closes his fists, chews his lip thoughtfully as he watches the bloom of red-pink, so striking against her cheek.

"Sit with me," She says, oddly calm, like she never is. He complies, grateful, if tentative, at this seldom offered reprieve as she sets her arm around his shoulders, toys with his hair. "You're mommy's little boy. You'd never hurt mommy, Walter." It's not a question.

"No," he whispers, fervent in light of this rare display of affection, all past wrongs immediately forgiven with the innocence of the very young. "Never."

"Good, that's good." She sighs, and lifts her arm away. He does not lean after it. "Get me my smokes. And put the cash in the jar."

--

The water runs cold, most days, and it freezes entirely in the winter. Still, it's no excuse, and it's long passed the time for the weekly bath.

"Get in the tub, Walter."

He stares at her, wide-eyed but silent, before dropping his gaze to the metal basin that passes as a washing facility (and occasionally as a sink). It's cold outside – October is half over, and the thin walls do little to keep in heat, and less to stop the chill from edging in through the cracks. His toes curl, catching on the uneven linoleum. "But…"

"Get in the tub!"

He flinches, edges toward her. She rolls her eyes and seizes his arm with one hand, dragging him the rest of the way. The cigarette swivels in her mouth, and she hauls him up, dumping him in the water without ceremony or particular regard. He howls as he hits it, head dunking under and popping back up a second later. He's already shaking, but he doesn't try to lunge out as she sets one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching for the soap.

The only motherly act she insists on.

She scrubs too hard, too raw, and the washcloth abrades his skin. Ashes begin dribble from her cigarette to land in the water around him, over him, and she swears under her breath. "Goddamn, would it kill you to just fucking stay clear of the dirt? Just for a week? I put food in your mouth, a roof over your head, can't you be grateful? Dunk." He complies, sputtering from the shock as he comes back up. "Slow little bastard…" She runs a hand through his raggedy hair. It might have been affection, but probably not; an absent gesture in the purest sense, but that doesn't stop it from meaning something to him.

Sylvia eyes him speculatively. "Alright, out."

He scurries to comply, half-tumbling out of the water and ducking for the towel to swipe off the water as quickly as possible and rub some feeling back into his skin. He looks over his shoulder but she's already left, sweeping back into the hall with her bathrobe fluttering behind her.

He's always filthy, it seems, all the time; the water itself is dirty.

And it's always cold.

--

"Don't you lie to me! Don't you fucking lie to me!" She shakes him by the arms, and his eyes are glued to hers, wide and startled and he cringes but it doesn't stop her.

"I'm not, I'm _not_!" He wails, arching away like a startled cat but not necessarily fighting back – would never think to fight back. "Mom, please, I'm not!"

"Then where's the money, Walter? Where?"

"I- I don't know, you took it last night," he stammers, trembling. "I don't _know_!"

Sylvia goes stiff, fingers clenching as the memories filter back in. Fuck. The bar. _Fuck_! She thought she would get more clientele there but then she had gotten a drink and… Stupid, stupid, stupid—and she's saying it out loud, has Walter by the hair, tugging that incriminating red mop hard as she can. "Stupid! So goddamn _stupid_!"

It's cathartic, and she doesn't stop for a long time.

--

She presses the wad of bills into his palm, puffing out her words with a cloud of trailing smoke. She's quiet, today, relaxed, but he is still wary as he approaches; her moods can shift in a moment, and it seems she triggers more often these days. "Go out and get me some rubbers, Walter."

His fist closes over the crumpled dollars, and he can feel all the dirt and grime and filth that's worked into it, deeper than the surface would imply, but he nods solemnly anyways, and slips out the door. It's a long walk in worn out shoes, and an embarrassing journey to be on, but he is an obedient son despite it all.

Up the street there are two older boys, smoking and talking. He wonders if he can slip by them unnoticed.

He thinks he can.


End file.
